


In Keen and Quivering Ratio

by JeanieNitro



Series: Keep Me In Line (But Do It Honestly) [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Blessed Objects, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Consensual Non-Consent, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley getting the 'evil' fucked out of him, Crowley's Divinity Kink, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Don't Try This At Home, Dubious Use of Holy Water, Halo Kink, Impact Play, M/M, Masochism, Predicament Bondage, Shibari, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Temporary Loss of Consciousness, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24259636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanieNitro/pseuds/JeanieNitro
Summary: Ever since their last scene, Crowley hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. The way Aziraphale had wrestled him in full demon form andwon, those strong hands gripping his sides, forcing him down, pinning him. The way Aziraphale had shrugged off his coils like it had been nothing. The slight sting of Aziraphale’s divine retribution. He hadn’t stopped thinking about it for the last month, if he was honest.Crowley comes into the bookshop one day to find Aziraphale holding a sword in one hand, hefting it thoughtfully. “What you got there, angel?” he asks.Aziraphale looks up, briefly startled. “Oh! Crowley,” he says. “Found an old sword of mine, from one of the wars. Not my flaming one, of course, just a regular one. I’d forgotten how nice a sword feels in the hand.”Sequel to "Seed of His Destruction". Aziraphale goes "demon hunting", rigs Crowley up in his own apartment, and gives him a very powerful incentive to hold still while he first beats him with the flat of a sword and then pleasures the evil right out of him. It's an intense experience all around but especially for Crowley.(With bonus art by the incredibly talented Callus Ran)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Keep Me In Line (But Do It Honestly) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1751206
Comments: 18
Kudos: 202
Collections: Adversarial Anniversary Celebration, Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brynncognito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynncognito/gifts).



> _For each ecstatic instant  
>  We must an anguish pay  
> In keen and quivering ratio  
> To the ecstasy._  
> ~Emily Dickinson, “Compensation”
> 
> Brynn, this is for you, darling. 😘 Looking forward to your incoherent screaming later. Hopefully it was worth sticking around for. :)
> 
> For everyone else: Hello peeps! Heed the tags and heads up, this is a fairly intense scene. Aziraphale, as dom, _is_ checking in with Crowley during this to make sure he’s okay, although it’s much more subtle than the classic stoplight system. If you want to know more about it, please check the end notes, and just keep in mind that these larger, longer CNC scenes I write are the culmination of many, many hours of unwritten play and experimentation for the two of them. Crowley may be surprised by how it all comes together, but Aziraphale doesn’t do anything they haven’t tested out before in more low-stakes situations.
> 
> Second chapter is art only! But check it out bc it's gorgeous

Ever since their last scene, Crowley hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. The way Aziraphale had wrestled him while Crowley was in full demon form and _won_ , those strong hands gripping his sides, forcing him down, _pinning him_. The way Aziraphale had shrugged off his coils like it had been nothing. The slight sting of Aziraphale’s divine retribution. He’d pretty much been thinking about nothing else for the last month, if he was honest. Aziraphale had seemed quite amenable to there being a _next time_ for that sort of thing, and Crowley hasn’t been able to get that out of his head. He just hasn’t quite figured out how or when to ask for another go.

He comes into the bookshop one day to find Aziraphale holding a sword in one hand, hefting it thoughtfully. “What you got there, angel?” he asks.

Aziraphale looks up, briefly startled. “Oh! Crowley,” he says. “Found an old sword of mine, from one of the wars. Not my flaming one, of course, just a regular one. I’m still not really a fighting sort, but I’d forgotten how _nice_ one feels in the hand. They are _so_ fun to play with.” He makes a few experimental thrusts and parries with the tarnished blade, and it’s clear by his form that he knows _absolutely_ what he’s doing.

Crowley swallows. He remembers Aziraphale saying that he’d look quite pretty with a sword under his chin, and the recollection hits him like a tonne of bricks just now.

Aziraphale looks up, tilts his head as if figuring something out, and suddenly smiles. It’s his “knowing bastard” smile too, the knowing bastard. “Got something on your mind, my dear?” he asks, sounding perfectly innocent.

“Er. Erm. Just. Looks like quite a good sword for smiting a demon with, angel.”

Aziraphale looks over the blade, turning it back and forth to inspect it. “You may be right,” he says genially. “Why, are you volunteering as a test subject?”

Crowley swallows again, trying to get his voice to work, but all that comes out is “ngk.” He stumbles verbally for a while and eventually croaks out “Sure, angel, why not? Whenever you like.” It sounds so far from casual that he can’t help but curse himself internally.

Aziraphale grins like a cat that’s got the cream. “Well. Sometime next week then.” He slides the sword back into the sheath with a definitive _snick_. “Lunch?”

  


* * *

  


Several days later, Crowley is watering his plants when he hears the door to his flat open and close. His heart rate spikes up instantly, mostly from anticipation, but it feels enough like real fear that he can easily pretend. He hears Aziraphale’s oxfords click primly on the concrete floor, then stop. There’s some rustling that sounds like Aziraphale setting down something on the dining room table, pulling things out of a bag maybe? The ripple of a couple minor miracles. More footsteps, heading towards him.

“I know you’re in here, little demon,” Aziraphale says eventually.

“ _Little demon,”_ Crowley scoffs under his breath, but he puts down his plant mister and slips into the shadows between the taller plants. There’s not a lot in here that would be any use against an angel, so he tries to make himself as unobtrusive as possible among the greenery. He shivers. Hiding like this is only going to prolong the inevitable, but he’s not going to make the angel’s job any easier by just going and giving himself up.

“I can feel you, you know,” Aziraphale says, the clicking of his shoes getting closer. “You won’t be able to hide from me for long.”

Crowley, peering through a sliver between the leaves, can see Aziraphale standing at the entrance to the plant room. He’s facing away, perhaps looking down the hallway or into the bedroom. He’s wearing his customary khaki color palette, but instead of a bookish suit jacket and threadbare waistcoat, he’s wearing a military-cut jacket more reminiscent of the British army and explorers at the turn of the 20th century. He cuts an extremely imposing figure, the jacket emphasizing the strength in Aziraphale’s broad shoulders and wide chest. With a jolt, Crowley notices the sword at Aziraphale’s hip and swallows.

Crowley realizes he’s made a noise and instantly stops breathing. Not that it’s any use, because his heart is thundering in his chest like it’s trying to escape. He tries to get _that_ to stop, too, but Aziraphale has already whipped around and is staring at his hiding place, even though Crowley is certain he can’t be seen through the dense foliage.

“There you are, foul fiend,” he says. “Foul fiend” is said just a bit too fondly to sound like an insult, but it sends shivers down Crowley’s spine all the same. Aziraphale stalks closer.

Crowley slips further into the greenery, pressing his back against the wall. It’s useless, of course; Aziraphale already knows he’s here. But no self-respecting demon would ever surrender to an angel, not even as a last resort, so he holds out.

Aziraphale draws his sword. The long scrape of metal rings in Crowley’s ears and sends more shivers down his spine. Aziraphale lifts the sword and delicately parts the leaves with it, like some British explorer parting the jungles of Africa with a machete. Crowley gives in to the feeling of being backed into a corner, lets his features turn snakey, and hisses at the angel.

“Going to try and make a run for it?” Aziraphale says calmly. “You can try, I suppose, but there’s nowhere for you to go. Come on out now, there’s a good boy.”

Aziraphale is provoking him deliberately, Crowley _knows_ this. That’s the point of this whole thing. But he still can’t shake the deep-seated itch of irritation he gets at being called _good_. He bares his now-significantly-pointier teeth and hisses again. “‘M not _good_ ,” he adds, for good measure. Scales are rippling all over him now, and his eyelids are definitely gone.

“Why are you _here_ , angel?” he says at last, when Aziraphale hasn’t made a move.

“Well, you know, demonic activity in the area has ramped up again, and my superiors have _definitely_ noticed. And since our last encounter had such . . . _positive_ . . . results, I thought it might be time to come and find you again. Sort you out. Give you a good angelic seeing-to, as it were.”

“Ssssstill trying to cure me of evil, angel?” he hisses. “It won’t work. You know I’m unforgivable.” Crowley’s long past caring about being forgiven, at least by God, but the statement plucks some deep-buried string in his soul all the same.

“That’s not your call to make, now is it?” Aziraphale says. The look in his eyes has softened somewhat from “stern avenging angel” to that look he gets when Crowley says too many bad things about himself in a row. And look, now Crowley’s ruining their fun little game by getting too many _feelings_ all over the place. He clears his throat and pulls himself back into character.

“If you think I’m coming with you willingly, think again, angel twat,” he spits.

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “ _Un_ willingly can be arranged,” he says.

Crowley ducks and lunges forward, trying to use his snake speed to get under the sword and out into the room.

However, instead of Crowley managing to make a brilliant escape, instead, Aziraphale stands aside and sticks his foot out slightly and watches as Crowley sprawls all over the floor. Crowley tries to wriggle away, but instead feels the cold pinprick of steel at the back of his neck, with just a prickle of holy tang to it. Did Aziraphale bless the blade?

“As you can see, it’s quite useless to resist,” Aziraphale says, still utterly prim. Fuck, he did that so easily. Crowley will never be over how utterly competent the angel is at fighting. He can feel himself getting hard against the cold stone floor. He sags into the coolness of the floor on his throbbing face and lets his snakier traits slip away again, since he’s clearly been defeated. 

“Turn over,” Aziraphale says, “but if you attempt to escape, things will go poorly for you.” He lifts the sword so that the point of it is no longer scraping his neck. Crowley gives half a thought to trying to scramble away, but given how easily Aziraphale had tripped him, he knows it would be futile.

“There we go,” Aziraphale says as Crowley flips onto his back. The point of the sword returns to the underside of Crowley’s jaw, pressing in. Yeah, that metal is _definitely_ blessed. It burns, coldly, like it’s just been pulled out of some dry ice. Aziraphale’s gaze sweeps over him with an almost physical weight. It lingers heavily on the rapidly-filling bulge in his trousers. A little smile twitches at the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “Hard already, demon?” he says almost scathingly. “Despite your protestations, it would seem you’re quite eager for more. Eager to be made good.”

Crowley has no response to this, so he simply sneers instead.

“Up, demon,” Aziraphale says, gesturing ever so slightly with the sword. “On your knees.”

Crowley swallows instinctively and shudders at the way the sword tip grazes over his Adam’s apple. He puts his hands out to the side so that they’re very visible and starts sitting up as slowly and smoothly as possible, making no sudden movements. The point of the sword follows him the whole way, giving him no reprieve. Finally he gets his legs up underneath him.

“Hands behind your back,” Aziraphale orders. As Crowley does so, the angel walks around behind him, dragging the point of the sword around Crowley’s neck. He folds Crowley’s arms behind his back, one over the other. Crowley wraps his hands around his elbows to keep himself steady while Aziraphale binds his forearms together. They’ve done this so many times that it hardly takes Aziraphale more than a few seconds before the rope is secure. Crowley hears the sound of the sword being sheathed. “Now up on your feet, demon,” Aziraphale says, pulling at his bound arms. 

Crowley struggles to his feet. He does his best to keep a sullen look on his face. It’s not too hard; sullen looks do come pretty easily to him, after all. Aziraphale frog marches him into the dining room. There are a variety of ropes and cords on the table, and new rings set into the floor. 

Aziraphale walks him over to the rings. “Stand here, demon.”

“Or what?” Crowley snarks. 

“Or I’ll smite you,” Aziraphale says calmly. “I’m sure you’d rather stand here than be smitten into dust. Your choice, I suppose.”

Crowley stands where Aziraphale points. Aziraphale takes one of the bundles of rope from the table and kneels on the floor, deftly securing first Crowley’s left ankle, then his right. Next, he calls down a rope from the ceiling, which he ties to Crowley’s arms where his wrists are crossed. “Bend over,” he says, pressing a hand between Crowley’s shoulder blades. Crowley tries to resist, just a little, for fun, but Aziraphale pushes him inexorably downwards until he is bent in half at the waist. The rope is just taught. “Perfect,” Aziraphale says, mostly to himself. Some more hooks appear in the floor, and Aziraphale faffs about with some thin, metallic-looking cord from the table. Crowley tries to watch with disinterest, but it’s hard not to be curious. Since the angel is no longer holding him down, Crowley stands up again to get a better look.

“Curious?” Aziraphale asks, noticing him watching. “Good. You’re about to find out what I have in store for you.” Aziraphale comes over to stand behind him and puts his left hand on Crowley’s shoulder, just at the base of his neck. He runs his right hand up the right side of Crowley’s neck, then brings both hands up to scritch Crowley’s scalp gently and ruffle his hair. He runs his fingers delicately along the shells of Crowley’s ears, then gently kneads his thumbs into the base of Crowley’s skull.

“What, kidnapped me to give me a bloody massage?” Crowley mutters.

Aziraphale chuckles. “Oh no, not at all.” His left hand comes down to settle on Crowley’s shoulder again, and it feels heavier this time, more ominous. “Halo, please.”

Crowley tenses. Halos, especially demons’ broken, shredded ones, are incredibly sensitive and incredibly intimate. He’s certainly let _Aziraphale_ touch it before, but would absolutely do anything in his power not to let an unfamiliar, potentially hostile angel get their hands on it. He licks his lips and takes a breath.

“Er, surely there’s no need for that, angel,” he says. “There’s, uh, there’s _quite_ a lot of things I could do for you. I can be good for you. Good _to_ you,” he says as lecherously as possible, “if that’s what you want. I can be anything you want.”

“What I want is for you to manifest your halo,” Aziraphale says, still utterly calm and completely unaffected. His grip tightens around Crowley’s head. “Now manifest it before I manifest it for you.”

Crowley shudders. He doesn't like the feeling of Aziraphale manifesting his halo for him, but if he’s playing this true, he definitely wouldn’t be just manifesting his halo willy-nilly. Defiant to the end, that’s him.

Aziraphale is unmoved. “Last chance, demon,” he says gently, his voice a sword wrapped in velvet.

“Well, get on with it then I guess,” Crowley mutters.

“Very well, then,” Aziraphale says, and reaches into the other plane where true forms and halos hide. “Hold still.” He grips Crowley’s shoulder firmly with his left hand as if to brace himself. With his right hand, he brushes his fingers gently around the space where Crowley’s broken, jagged halo lies, tracing it with his holy fingers. Crowley shudders; it’s an extremely intimate feeling, and not entirely pleasant, not with how holy Aziraphale still is. All at once, Aziraphale grabs onto the side of his halo and _yanks_ , metaphysically speaking. Nothing moves, at least not in anything as crass as three-dimensional space, but Crowley feels completely off-balance. 

“Fuck!” he exclaims. He’s hot and cold at the same time, shivering with strange aftershocks, and there’s a ringing in his ears. He wants to shake his head to clear it, but Aziraphale still has a firm grip on his halo and he _can’t move_. His whole essence is screaming at the prospect of Holy Angel to his most vulnerable, most demonic part. Aziraphale runs his fingers along the edge of the halo and it’s like quiet nails on a chalkboard, like styrofoam rubbing together gently.

There’s a gentle _snk_ of rope ends landing on the concrete floor and then Aziraphale is winding rope around the halo’s base. The ends of the rope brush along the backs of his thighs and up his spine as Aziraphale makes a half hitch and pulls it tight. The sensation of the rope tightening around his halo makes him gasp. Azriaphale walks around in front of him, still holding the ends of the rope.

“Bow, demon,” he says, and pulls down on the rope, forcing Crowley to bend in half again. Crowley is left gasping at the sensation as Aziraphale repeats the process over and over, hitching rope after rope to his halo. Since he’s now facing the floor, all he can see are Aziraphale’s polished shoes, but the continual tugging has turned almost into a sensation like hair being braided.

“What’re you doing up there, angel? Making me into a bloody arts and crafts project?” Crowley asks, disgruntled.

Aziraphale, holding a length of braided ropes in his hand, raises Crowley’s chin so he can look him in the eye. There’s amusement on his face. “Now now, all in good time. This has its purpose as everything else does, and it’s clear that learning some patience would serve you well.”

Aziraphale finishes braiding the cord and hitches it to an eyelet in the floor in front of Crowley. For all of the faffing about that Aziraphale was doing, Crowley’s halo is tied remarkably securely. He can hardly move his head at all. Combined with the way his arms are suspended and his feet are tied, he can hardly move at all aside from a little side-to-side wiggle room.

Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley’s back, just above where his arms are tied. “So beautiful. What a pretty picture you make, trussed up like this.”

Crowley hangs his head. “Just fuck me or whatever, please?” he says, trying to sound defeated. “So we can get this over with?”

“Oh my dear boy, there will be no ‘getting this over with’,” Aziraphale says with something that sounds like glee. “We are far from finished. Wings, please.”

Crowley shivers. His wings, like his halo, are extremely vulnerable, and if this were any angel but Aziraphale, he would be out of his mind with fear right now. A thin sliver of adrenaline rushes through him and he shivers. “Please no, not the wings. Please, you already have my halo,” he begs.

“And we see how well your refusal went that time. Wings, please, or I’ll do it again,” Aziraphale says firmly, and slips his finger into the other plane, stroking the downy feathers at the base of Crowley’s left wing. It’s—it’s ticklish and arousing, and it’s already too much, too much—! If Aziraphale were to yank his wings out the way he yanked his halo, Crowley’s not sure he could take it. Crowley grits his teeth and brings forth his wings. They manifest with a small _thwomp_ of displaced air.

“There, there. What a good demon. Getting better already.” Aziraphale pets Crowley’s wings and it feels amazing, Crowley could drown in the sensation of Aziraphale stroking his wings forever. All too soon, Aziraphale moves away again to fetch something else. “Now these shouldn’t hurt you, in and of themselves,” Aziraphale says. He clamps something onto Crowley’s wing, around the bone. It’s firm and heavy and a little pinch-y but it’s not _painful_ , per se. It must be one of those wing clamps with eyelets that they’d made so Aziraphale could tie Crowley’s wings up. Aziraphale moves around him to the other side, clipping another one onto his right wing. There’s some more sounds of rope or cord and some tugging—Crowley can’t move his head to really look but it’s safe to assume Aziraphale is tying something there. He’s running it through another loop on the ground, then up? Aziraphale snaps and there’s a sudden tension on the rope, pulling his wings down to the floor, like a tent tarp being fastened and tied off. Crowley is now feeling well and truly tied up, perfect fucking position, really.

Aziraphale’s feet click off towards the kitchen. There’s the sound of clinking glass, running water, something being filled up. Aziraphale’s feet click back into view. He lowers something until Crowley can see a pitcher of water. He sets it down just under Crowley’s nose. “Now demon, this is a perfectly ordinary pitcher of water.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a tiny crystal vial. “This, on the other hand, is the holiest Holy Water.” Crowley can feel the holiness pouring off of it in waves, and flinches when it gets too close to his face. “Now, I have no wish to destroy you. In fact, I’m quite proud of the progress you made last time and I’m quite certain that I may even still be able to reform you almost completely.”

Crowley makes a sneering sound. 

“Hush, demon, I’m not finished,” Aziraphale says. “So I won’t be using this Holy Water on you in its purest form, but I think it will still be useful to assist in your continued training and purification. I will be diluting it.” He pours a single drop from the vial into the pitcher. “It won’t be enough to permanently damage you, but it should be exceedingly unpleasant to get on your bare skin.” They’ve experimented with this before; one drop of Holy Water in a pitcher of this size should feel about as painful as a human getting splashed with scalding water. 

“Good thing I’m still fully dressed, then,” Crowley snarks.

Aziraphale snaps his fingers and Crowley’s clothes vanish. If he thought he felt exposed before, this is an entirely new level. Hee shivers, a little, at the chill of being suddenly bare. He has an overwhelming desire to _cover_ himself, either with his wings or his hands or with _something_ , but both of those are impossible for him to move right now, so instead he just squirms, shifts his weight from foot to foot, and rocks gently back and forth in his bonds, the only amount of movement left to him.

Aziraphale snaps his fingers and a bowl appears on the ground. It’s black, with three little eyelets set into the rim at equal distances. Aziraphale pours the pitcher of semi-holy water into the bowl and stands, walking into the kitchen to put the pitcher away while Crowley contemplates the bowl.

Aziraphale returns. “Now demon,” he says, “I’ll be tying your halo and each of your wings to ropes that connect to this bowl. You will have to remain perfectly still or else you will unbalance the bowl and splash some of this water on yourself. This is to teach you obedience and restraint. Am I clear?”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure you’ve already taught me quite a bit about restraint tonight,” Crowley mutters.

“What was that?” Aziraphale says, clearly looking for a different answer.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Yes, angel, very clear.”

“There we go,” Aziraphale says smugly. He’s untying the halo rope from the loop in the floor and running it up to where the wing ropes are tied. There’s more rustling and untying of knots and Crowley feels the tension on his wings change and loosen. “Now lift up your wings, please,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley does nothing.

“Now demon, remember, I am doing this as a kindness,” Aziraphale says. “I have you utterly at my mercy, and I could do things to you that would be much more unpleasant than a little diluted holy water. It would be well for you to mind me.” When Crowley doesn’t respond, his whole body convulses for the merest second of a millisecond with a blinding wave of pain, a holy smiting. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Crowley coughs.

“Good. Now, let’s try again. Lift up your wings, please.”

Crowley raises them a little.

“Higher, higher!” Aziraphale calls. Crowley raises his wings until they’re at about a 45 degree angle before Aziraphale seems satisfied. “Now your head. Look up, raise it a bit, there’s a dear.” This time, Crowley does as he is told. With a snap from Aziraphale, the bowl disappears from the floor and Crowley can feel a new, wobbling weight tugging at his wings and halo.

“Very good,” Aziraphale says. “From now on, you must hold still unless you want to get splashed. Am I understood?”

Crowley almost goes to nod and then realizes how disastrous that would be. “Yes, angel,” he says instead. The words are difficult to get out of his throat with his head stretched back as far as it is. His heart is going crazy now, beating all over the place at the mere thought of accidentally splashing himself with the diluted holy water. He’s holding absolutely still. It’s hard to focus on anything but the position he’s holding, everything that he must keep track of in order not to move.

“Now let’s see how obedient and still you can be while I beat some of the evil out of you,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley can’t help but twitch when Aziraphale’s soft hand runs gently across his arse and down the back of his thighs. 

“Shhhh, it’s alright, I’m not trying to make you fail,” Aziraphale says in the tone of voice one would use to calm a frightened animal. “Hold still for me, there’s a love.” He continues rubbing his soft hands all over Crowley’s arse and thighs, the touch growing slightly firmer. Eventually Aziraphale moves on to taps, waiting after each one for Crowley to get himself back in alignment. He then moves on to harder and harder slaps with his hand, testing to see how well Crowley can hold still. And oh, is Crowley trying to hold still. He’s trying to anticipate the slaps, trying to adjust himself to account for how they’ll make him swing, is gritting his teeth with the concentration it’s taking.

Then, suddenly, just as he’s finally getting into the rhythm Aziraphale is setting, it stops. He can’t move to look, he _can’t_ , he reminds himself, and he closes his eyes to force himself not to try. Instead he hears the metallic _shick_ of the sword being pulled from its sheath. His breath catches. He can’t look, he can’t look, but he can feel the prickly cold holiness of the blessed blade close to his tender skin. A tiny, high-pitched whine escapes him. He had to work so hard to stay still while Aziraphale was only using his hand; how is he going to stay still with _this_?

The first tap of the sword comes, and it’s gentle, testing. Then comes a second, harder tap. Another, a proper hit (albeit gentle). It’s hard, it’s so hard; the cold holiness of the blade makes him flinch far worse than Aziraphale’s relatively warm and gentle hand. He can feel the tension on his wings and halo change as the water sloshes around in the bowl, making it swing from side to side. He’s incredibly grateful that Aziraphale didn’t fill it up to the brim.

 _Tap, tap, tap, SWAT. Tap tap tap SWAT._ Then closer together. _Tap tap SWAT. Tap tap SWAT._ Closer and closer. _Tap SWAT. Tap SWAT. Tap SWAT._ The bowl is shaking, shaking. He’s trying to realign, trying to get back in balance but it’s so hard, it’s going to fall, it’s going to fall!

The taps pause for a second and he lets out a relieved whine as he’s able to get himself back in balance and the bowl slowly stops wobbling.

“Quite settled?” Aziraphale asks primly.

“Oh, yeah. By all means, please continue,” Crowley says.

“Very well then. Sets of five, now.” The first stroke of the set lands harder than before and Crowley jumps. The bowl is swinging again and he’s fucked, he’s so fucked. _**THWACK THWACK THWACK THWACK THWACK**_ **.** A pause. “Five more,” Aziraphale says, much too soon. _**THWACK THWACK**_ the bowl is wobbling violently now and a small splash of burning water lands on his back.

Crowley yelps and tries to twist away involuntarily but that makes the bowl wobble worse and the strokes are still coming, and his breathing, his breathing is all over the place why is he even breathing— 

A hand catches his halo and one of the ropes tied to his wings, immediately helping to stabilize the bowl and letting him get his other wing back into proper alignment.

“As I said, I’m not here to see you fail,” Aziraphale says. His voice is calm and steady and Crowley clings to it like a lifeline. “Calm yourself, we’ll try again.”

“Fuck off, angel,” he grits out. “What, you getting off on this or something?”

“Your struggle to obey me is indeed beautiful,” Aziraphale says, “but whether or not _I’m_ ‘getting off on it,’ as you say, _you_ certainly seem to be enjoying it.” He reaches underneath to fondle Crowley’s throbbing cock. Crowley twitches in his bonds but manages not to disrupt anything too badly. Aziraphale removes his hand and steps back into position where Crowley can’t see him. “Another five,” Aziraphale says, and begins again.

The blessed blade is a sting quite unlike any of the other implements they’ve used. The holiness of it both numbs and inflames him in a way that’s hard to describe, hard to comprehend. Aziraphale isn’t hitting him _that_ hard, all things considered, but the ache is building up more and more, until even the lightest taps are making him feel like he’s about to come apart. The bowl is wobbling again and he’s barely keeping up with it, barely holding it level enough not to splash. He’s not sure how much more of this he can take, but he _wants_ to, he _wants_ to be good for Aziraphale, dammit. He doesn’t want to fail. He realizes that a tear has slipped down his cheek, then another one. He wants to hang his head, to hide from it all, but he _can’t_ , he can’t even let himself move.

There’s a pause between sets that stretches longer than the others, and then the sound of the sword being resheathed. Although he can’t let himself move, he sags with relief internally and tries to blink away the tears.

Aziraphale comes into view in front of him and takes Crowley’s face in his hands, smoothing away the tears with his thumbs. “What a sweet demon you are. You’re trying so hard for me, doing so well,” Aziraphale says, holding Crowley’s jaw in his soft, strong hands, a look of pure fondness on his face. “You deserve a reward.”

Crowley’s so happy he momentarily forgets to snark back, and a look of worry crosses Aziraphale’s face. His gaze grows more searching as he waits for Crowley’s next words. 

“Demons aren’t _sweet_ ,” Crowley hisses. “I’m not your good little _pet_.”

Aziraphale beams beatifically and continues stroking Crowley’s face. “But you _could_ be, you know, if you wanted to be. I’ve taken quite a shine to you. Wouldn’t you like that? To be my pet and be good for me?” Crowley is already Aziraphale’s, body and soul, but when Aziraphale looks at him like that, when Aziraphale says things like that, Crowley would do anything, say anything for him. “Let me show you, give you a taste of what you could have if you let me keep you—I’m not going to remove the water though, so hold still.”

Suddenly Crowley’s body begins to fill with the most incredible sensation. It starts in his face where Aziraphale is still touching him, then radiates down his neck like a warm bath, like a delicious orgasm, like the feeling of finally getting rid of the last of a shed skin. Divine ecstasy rolls through him in a long, delicious wave, and he closes his eyes as it washes through him. He hardly even notices that the bowl is wobbling again until the pleasure recedes almost instantly as Aziraphale takes his hands away to steady the ropes again.

“Now it’s time to start filling you up, I should think,” Aziraphale says. “But first, to continue your lesson in patience, you are not allowed to come until I say you can.” He steps over to the table and returns with a rubber cock ring that he fits carefully over Crowley’s cock and balls. Crowley whines. 

Aziraphale He pulls on the ropes and adjusts Crowley’s wings so that Crowley’s mouth is at the perfect height, then unbuttons his pants and the bottom few buttons of his jacket to pull his cock out. “Open your mouth, there’s a good boy,” Aziraphale says, holding Crowley by the chin and running his thumb across Crowley’s mouth. Crowley opens his mouth and wraps a serpentine tongue around Aziraphale’s cock as the angel slips it in. “Yes, just like that,” Aziraphale says, petting Crowley’s hair. It’s so gentle and nice that Crowley closes his eyes. He starts sucking as best he can with his head bent backwards, and as Aziraphale starts thrusting, Crowley feels the warm, pleasant wash of holy ecstasy slide over him again. He’s got Aziraphale’s cock heavy on his tongue and he has to keep his wings _still_ and he’s hard, he’s so hard, he can’t think he can’t breathe he can’t move and he’s throbbing, his whole body is throbbing. He hardly even notices when Aziraphale thrusts deep and holds him steady, coming down his throat in long pulses.

“Very good,” Aziraphale says, brushing Crowley’s hair back and petting his face again. “You took that so well. I think you’re quite ready for the rest of it.”

With that, Aziraphale moves around behind Crowley again, back out of his line of sight. There’s a small clink of a bottle being opened, and then Aziraphale’s fingers are on him, rubbing gentle circles on his asshole. The oil he’s using is infused with something minty and cooling, and the sensation of it where it brushes against his extremely warm arse makes him gasp. Aziraphale pushes a finger in, and in addition to the cooling lube, he must still be using the barest hints of angelic ecstasy, because it feels _so_ much better than it has any right to. Crowley’s eyes roll backwards into his sockets and he groans, even as he shakes with the effort of holding himself still. He’s panting now, so close to being completely overwhelmed. The ring around his cock is holding him right on the edge of coming. He feels like a delicate porcelain teacup balanced exactly on the edge of a table, just waiting for a single breath of air to send it shattering over the edge.

Aziraphale is still pressing in relentlessly, fingers rippling with angelic ecstasy. Every nerve, every molecule of Crowley’s corporation is screaming. He mustn’t move, he mustn’t, but he’s shaking, every muscle trembling with effort. He’s shivering closer and closer to that edge, more and more and more and more— 

And then he feels it, a slight change in the burning in his cock, the tiniest of hooks finally setting, beginning to dredge up the beginnings of an orgasm. It feels like it’s coming from a long way away, like dredging up something heavy from the furthest reaches of the ocean, inexorably set in motion. The feeling starts growing faster and faster, and Crowley suddenly feels like he’s about to get hit by an oncoming freight train. His mouth is open and he’s on the precipice, it’s coming it’s coming it’s coming, and then

  
  


The world explodes.

  
  


Every nerve explodes at once, searing white-hot ecstasy rushing through the world like getting struck by lightning. It’s like he’s falling, he’s Falling, but in the other direction, hurtling like an electron into the stratosphere. He’s burning, burning up, on fire like he’s flown too close to the sun, but he’s never felt better in his entire life. From far away he vaguely registers the sound of screaming, and thinks that maybe it might be him? But all he can hear is the roaring in his ears and the thump, thump, thump of his decorative heart.

  
  


He floats down gently, through white and through black, through air and thick water, light as a petal on the wind. There’s a soft cloth wiping gently along his back, which feels burned and tingly but seems to be getting less so. His arse and thighs are still on fire and tingling from the beating and the cooling oil. He can hear Aziraphale murmuring words. He focuses, trying to make out what they are.

“What a good demon you are, absolutely lovely, what a good boy, I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you, you’re going to be so perfect when I fill you up and make you good” Aziraphale is murmuring over him like an incantation.

“I’m not good,” Crowley tries to say, but his throat is raw. Huh. He must have been screaming after all. “‘M not good,” he tries again. “Can’t make me.” He’s aiming for snarky but it falls far short and lands somewhere in maudlin instead.

Aziraphale gives him a soft, fond look, so full of love it nearly bowls Crowley over, even restrained as he is. “At the very least, you deserve a reward for taking it so well,” he says, and Crowley’s heart swells with something he tries not to look at too closely. “You spilled all the water, so I’ve rearranged your bindings. Your head is mostly free now, though. I tied it to your arms, just to keep the rope out of the way.”

“Well, get on with it then,” Crowley croaks. Aziraphale smiles far too softly for an avenging angel and walks out of sight. Crowley tests the new restraint configuration by giving his head a shake from side to side and it’s So Nice.

He jumps a little as the angel pulls his cheeks apart and slides inside him slowly. He’s feeling full, so full, and it feels good, even all oversensitive and sensitized as he is right now. Aziraphale starts out slow but builds up to a steady rhythm quickly. Crowley yelps, just a little, when Aziraphale finds his prostate, but a couple more thrusts and it tips right back over into feeling good. The cock ring must have slipped off when he came, because he can’t feel the weight of it any more, so he’s quickly getting hard again.

“What a sweet thing you are,” Aziraphale says. “Look at you. So obedient for me. You’ll be on the right path in no time, reformed, full of grace. Well, full of my grace, at least, but maybe that will be enough. I almost don’t want to let you go after, just keep you for myself. My own little obedient demon, that I can have whenever I like. I doubt you’ll want to thwart me again. You’ll be too busy begging for my mercy.” Aziraphale pauses. “Actually, that sounds rather nice. Demon, beg that I will be merciful and fill you with my grace.” 

“Must I?” Crowley croaks. Aziraphale smacks his arse with the palm of his hand. “Beg, fiend.”

“Please,” Crowley says.

“Better than that. You were being so good before, let me see it again.”

“Please, angel, please.”

“Please what?”

“Please, angel, fill me with your grace?” Crowley guesses.

“That’ll do, I suppose. Now, if you keep begging me, I may even let you come a second time,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley licks his lips and gets his best begging voice on. “Please, please angel, please, fill me, angel, please, oh angel, I need it, I just want to be filled by you, please make me yours, I’ll be good for you, angel, just let me—” and suddenly, though he was begging in jest, he gets a rush of sudden feelings that hits him almost as hard as the orgasm had earlier, if a little bit more gently. Tears well up in his eyes and his voice breaks a little. He does his best to keep it under control. “Please please please please,” he chants, not trusting himself with any of the fancier stuff. He feels Aziraphale’s rhythm start to stutter and become erratic, and then the angel is coming inside him. Crowley is still rock hard, and there’s tears rolling down his face that he can’t quite explain or wipe away. When Aziraphale’s hand reaches down to wrap around him, it’s like a benediction, and he sobs brokenly as he comes again with a couple of strokes.

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says. There’s a snap of fingers and the ropes unravel themselves. Aziraphale catches him from behind, gathering him up into his arms. “I think we’re done for the evening, my love,” he says. “You can put your wings and your halo away if you like.”

Crowley feels as weak as a newborn kitten, but he has just enough energy to fold everything away, to tuck it back into the other plane. Aziraphale scoops him up into his arms, and Crowley nuzzles into his angel’s neck. He feels completely wrung out, utterly drained, and it’s so nice to be able to relax into the comfort of Aziraphale’s strong, steady arms. They walk into the flat’s bathroom, where a warm bath is already standing ready. Aziraphale slips Crowley into the warm water and it’s so, so nice. Crowley groans.

“How many miracles is this, angel? Seems like a lot tonight.”

Aziraphale smiles fondly. “If they were going to cut off my miracles, they would have done it long ago. Either they’re not looking, they don’t care, or they’re too afraid to do anything about it. I’ll use as many on my beloved as I please.”

Crowley smiles and slips in the water just up to his eyes. He slides back up after a second, just enough to get his mouth free. “I love you, angel.”

Aziraphale’s expression grows impossibly fond. “I love you too, my dearest. I take it you’ll want a nap after this?”

“You know me too well, angel.”

  
  


And it was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way that Aziraphale is checking in with Crowley is this: as long as Crowley is snarking and making cheeky comebacks, Aziraphale knows that Crowley is okay. If Crowley's too overwhelmed to make some sort of comeback, Aziraphale checks in a little more closely. That way they can let the scene flow a little more naturally while still staying (mostly) safe. 
> 
> Anyways, hope y'all enjoyed it, there will likely be more in this series as long as I keep getting prompts that spark my fancy.


	2. Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The art here is a piece I commissioned from the lovely Callus Ran, queen of angst and gorgeous lighting. Her Tumblr is [here](https://ran196242.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to check out more of her art, or she also has a store [here](https://callusrancorner.ecwid.com/Good-Omens-c40655007) if you want to order some of her sparkly keychains, chibi stickers, or stuffies (all of it great). (I love her to death you guys)

Is he in pain? Is he in ecstasy? You decide . . . (click for larger size!!)  
[](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1ei-s5nSEZXFgjHj32C44Rnf1Y9G_Uoo7/view?usp=drivesdk)


End file.
